The wicket gate was just beside him. He pushed it open and went in. “Look again,” he said. “Please. They're there. They have to be there.'
'You're not allowed in here,” she told him, edging away. “What's the matter with you? I told you they're not —'
He caught her arm. “Show me the books then. I'll look for myself.'
She yelled and pulled away. He let her go, and she ran out of the office and down the hall, calling, “Mr. Harkness! Mr. Harkness!'
Banning, in the record room, looked helplessly at the tall shelves of heavy ledgers. He didn't understand the markings on them, he wanted to tear them all down and search them till he found the proofs that must be there, the proofs that he wasn't crazy or lying. But where to start?
He didn't start. There was a heavy footstep, and a hand on his shoulder. It was a beefy, unperturbed man with a cigar in his mouth. He took the cigar out and said, “Now young fellow, what are you creating a disturbance about?'
Banning began angrily, “Listen, whoever you are—'
'Harkness,” said the beefy man. “I'm Roy Harkness, and I'm Sheriff of this county. You'd better come along to my office.'
Hours later, Banning sat in the Sheriff's office and finished telling his story for the third time.
'It's a conspiracy,” be said wearily. “I don't know what it's all about, but you're all in on it.'
Neither the Sheriff, nor his deputy, nor the reporter and photographer from the Greenville newspaper, laughed outright. But he could see the grins they didn't quite suppress.
'You're charging,” said the Sheriff, “that the whole city of Greenville has got together and deliberately falsified the records. That's a serious charge. And what reason would we have?'
Banning felt sick. He knew he was sane, and yet the world had suddenly ceased to make sense. “That's what I can't figure out. Why? Why would you people want to take my past away?” He shook his head. “I don't know. But I know that that old Mr. Wallace was lying. Maybe he's behind this.'
'Only trouble is,” said the sheriff, “that I've known the old man all my life. I can tell you for certain that he's owned that lot for forty-two years and there's never been so much as a hencoop on it.'
Banning said, “Then I'm lying about this? But why would I?'
The Sheriff shrugged. “Could be build-up for some kind of extortion scheme. Could be a cute gag because you want publicity for some reason. And could be, you're nuts.'
Banning got up, rage flaring in him. “So that's it — frame this up and then tell me I'm crazy. Well. we'll see.
He started toward the door. The Sheriff made a gesture. The photographer got a fine action shot as the deputy grabbed Banning and hustled him expertly into the jail-wing beyond the office, and into a cell.
'Psycho,” said the reporter, staring at Banning through the bars. “You can't tell by looking at them, can you?'
Banning looked stupidly back through the bars at them, unable to believe that this was happening. “A frame- up—” he said thickly.
'No frame-up at all, son,” the Sheriff said. “You come in and make a disturbance, you charge a lot of people with conspiracy — well, you got to stay here till we check up on you.” He turned to his deputy. “Better wire to that New York publisher he says he works for. Give them a general description — six feet tall, black hair, black eyes, and so on, just in case.'
He went away, and so did the deputy and the reporter and photographer. Banning was alone in the cell- wing.
He sat down and put his head between his bands. Bright sunlight poured through the high barred window, but as far as Banning was concerned it was midnight, and the darkest he had ever known.
If only he had not decided to visit the old home town. But he had. And now he was faced with questions. Who was lying, who was crazy? He could not find any answers.
Evening came. They brought him food, and he asked about arranging bail, but he could get no definite answer. The Sheriff was out. He demanded a lawyer, and was told not to worry. He sat down again, and waited. And worried.
For lack of anything else to do, he went over the years of his life, starting from the first thing he could remember. They were all there. There were gaps and vague spots, of course, but everybody had those — the countless days in a lifetime when nothing much happened. But the main facts remained. He was Neil Banning, and he had spent a lot of his life in Greenville, in a house that everyone said had never existed.
In the morning, Harkness came in and spoke to him. “I heard from New York,” he said. “You're all clear on that angle.'
He studied Banning through the bars. “Look, you seem a decent enough young fellow. Why don't you tell me what this is all about?'
'I wish I could,” said Banning grimly. Harkness sighed. “Pete's right, you can't tell by looking at them. I'm afraid we have to hold you for a psychiatric.'
'A what?'
'Listen, I've combed this town and its records. There just never were any Bannings here. There weren't even any Greggs. And the only Lewises I could find, five on a farm twenty miles from here and they never heard of you.” He spread his hands. “What am I suppose to think?'
Banning turned his back. “You're lying,” he said. “Get out.'
'Okay.” Harkness tossed something through the bars. “This might interest you, anyway.” He went off down the corridor. After a while Banning picked the thing up. It was the local newspaper of the previous evening. It had a good story, the nut from New York accusing a little Nebraska town of stealing away his past. It was a story so droll that Banning knew it would surely be on all the wire services.
Banning read it three times. He began to think that soon he really would need a psychiatrist, and probably a straitjacket, too.
Just before sundown the deputy came in and said, “You've got a visitor.'
Banning sprang up. Someone must have remembered him, someone who would prove that be was telling the truth.
But the man who came down the corridor was a stranger, a dark, hard, massive man of middle years, who wore his clothes with a curious awkwardness. He strode up to the cell door, walking lightly for all his bulk. He looked at Banning, and his eyes were very dark, very intense.
His bleak, square face did not change expression. Yet a subtle change did come over this massive man as he stared. He had the look of a man who has waited and endured for ages, a grim and somber man of stone who at last sees that for which be waited.
'The Valkar,” he said softly, not to Banning only, but to himself, his voice leaping with a harsh throb. “Kyle Valkar. It's been a long time, but I've found you.'
Banning stared. “What did you call me? And who are you? I never saw you before.'
'Didn't you?” said the stranger. “But you did. I'm Rolf. And you're the Valkar. And the bitter years are over.'
Quite unexpectedly, he reached through the bars and took Banning's right hand, and set it against his own bowed forehead, in a gesture of obeisance.
CHAPTER II
For a moment, too shocked even to move, Banning stared at the stranger. Then he caught his hand away.
'What are you doing?” he demanded, drawing back. “What is this? I don't know you. And I'm not — whatever name you called me. I'm Neil Banning.'
The stranger smiled. In his dark, ruthless face there was something that frightened Banning more than open enmity would have done. It was affection, such as a man might have for a son, or younger brother. Deep affection,
